


Win by Fall (Pin ‘Em Down, Drink ‘Em Up)

by Nimohtar



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Don't copy to another site, Freestyle Wrestling, M/M, Organised Chaos, Prompt Sports Rivals, Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children, Spideypool - Freeform, Spideypool Bingo 2019, no superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 07:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20336143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimohtar/pseuds/Nimohtar
Summary: “I appreciate it, but I’m not used to relying on someone else to bail me out of my own mistakes.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Besides, I did some wrestling in high school.”Wade swallowed. “Kid, this ain’t exactly high school with high school rules. The SM of Sister Margaret’s can have multiple meanings, if you get my drift?”





	Win by Fall (Pin ‘Em Down, Drink ‘Em Up)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Spideypool Bingo 2019 Prompt: Sports Rivals
> 
> MY FIRST SQUARE COMPLETED!
> 
> Thanks to Vixen13, MsCaptainWinchester and Jennicide for beta-ing and turning my "adorably British" story into something a little more NYC...

The small parking lot behind Sister Margaret’s was packed to bursting. 

Not with cars, oh no, nothing so mundane for this particular bar! No, it was one of Marge’s regular but random “Pin ‘Em Down” nights, where everyone and their mother made it round the back and got down and dirty wrestling on the cracked asphalt. 

There were rules—of a sort—and some attempt at organisation. The chalkboard usually advertising Happy Hour had been dragged outside and wiped clean, a list of names of those participating scrawled across it. Weasel was announcing the start of the fights and calling the winner, although the referees seemed to be self-appointed, and it wasn’t always clear if they were enforcing the rules or joining in. 

There was heckling, catcalling, money changing hands as the betting pool grew, and an ever-growing number of injuries as the people got drunker and the fights got nastier. 

It was the kind of chaos Wade loved. 

He was pleasantly buzzed at the moment, a cool bottle of beer in his hand, which he was alternately sipping from and pressing against his currently split lip. 

Beardy Weirdy certainly packed a punch. 

Not that there was supposed to be punching—had no one read the “How a Wrestling Match Works” article? And not the gaudy pro-wrestling theatrical kind—but the regulars of Sister Margaret’s didn’t always play by the rules, and it was as good an opportunity as any to settle the petty grievances that tended to crop up in a testosterone-filled and violent environment such as this. 

Wade wasn’t against dishing out a little physical damage himself, and he could take the odd bruise and graze in the name of fun.

And he  _ was _ having fun. Nothing like a back-alley brawl to let off a bit of steam after a tough week. 

Besides, the prize was free drinks at the bar, and Wade was all about taking advantage of free booze. 

“You are doing very well tonight, Mr. Pool,” a cheerful voice beside him said. 

Wade looked over his shoulder and grinned—only to wince as he felt the pinch of his lip splitting again. “Hey, Dopinder,” he greeted the young man who occasionally worked odd jobs at the bar. “You on the drinks tonight?”

Dopinder glanced down at the tray in his arms and the row of shot glasses balanced precariously on the surface. “It is a busy night, Mr. Pool, and Mr. Weasel say if I work hard tonight, he may consider a promotion from cleaner to server.”

“Well, that’s certainly good news,” Wade replied encouragingly, getting up from the pile of tyres that had been his seat and stretching out his back. 

There was no way he was going to admit he was getting too old for this shit; he wasn’t even thirty-two yet. He bounced on his feet a few times to loosen his leg muscles. 

“You are having a chance for winning?” Dopinder continued. 

Wade gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Could be. Depends who steps up next…”

There was a large cheer from half of the crowd and an audible groan from the other. Wade glanced over his shoulder to see a large man being thrown onto a box of broken bottles. Ouch, that was gonna be nasty… hopefully he’d remember to get a tetanus shot. 

He turned back to Dopinder, eyeing his tray of alcoholic treats. “Any progress with Gita yet?” he asked, a surefire method of distraction. 

True to form, Dopinder’s eyes lit up and turned distant as he pictured his crush. “We have not spoken yet, but I think it will happen soon, Mr. Pool. I took your advice and am slowly being in all parts of her life, until she will have no choice but to acknowledge me.”

“Uh huh…” Wade surreptitiously reached out and snagged a shot glass from the tray, but before he could lift it to his lips, a hand swiped out and stole it from him, plopping it back. 

Wade turned to see Weasel right at his shoulder and adopted a wounded expression, but the grumpy bartender was having none of it. 

“You—you have customers,  _ paying ones _ , now scram,” he directed towards Dopinder.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Weasel,” Dopinder said, obediently scurrying away. 

_ “I’m _ a paying customer!” Wade protested, but Weasel let loose a loud, disbelieving snort. 

“Yeah? Since when?”

“Just put it on my tab,” Wade suggested, raising his eyebrows hopefully. 

“The point of a  _ tab _ is that you eventually  _ pay it off _ ,” Weasel countered, pushing his glasses further up his nose. His glare could have leveled buildings, but Wade had known him long enough, and he was made of sterner stuff. He could take Weasel. 

But Weasel had the bar… and the contracts…

He grumbled under his breath. He’d just have to snag Dopinder later.

“Maybe if you win, I’ll let your winnings pay for some of it,” Weasel allowed, and Wade’s bad mood instantly lifted. He dragged Weasel into a hug, ignoring the smaller man’s squawks of protest. 

“ _ You’re my best friend,”  _ he sang. 

“I’m really not—” the smaller man grunted, “—now get off!” 

Wade let go with reluctance, and Weasel straightened his clothes like an angry cat who’d just fallen into water and was clawing back its dignity. 

“That means you’d better win, though, got it?”

Wade nodded, a finger tracing a cross over his heart. 

“Yeah, well—” Weasel suddenly broke off, distracted by something behind Wade. “Oh, no. Not happening. Hey, Twink!” he shouted, before barging off in that direction. 

Wade spun on his heels to find out what had caught his attention and saw Weasel barrelling towards an unsuspecting young man who was—foolishly—lifting an old school camera to his eyes and snapping a shot of the current bout. 

Wade winced. Oooh boy, hard evidence of the St Margaret’s fights were a massive NO-NO in neon letters; too many people here wanting to stay anonymous, skirting the edges of criminality to downright swimming in it, Wade included. 

Unless it was a nude calendar shoot, then he might consider it. Gotta please his fans.

The young man shot upright as Weasel reached him, lowering his camera, and Wade got his first look at the interloper. 

_ Oh great god of chimichangas.  _

It was all he could do not to pinch himself. 

Mr. Twink, i.e. Sexy-McSexy, a.k.a. Wade’s Newest Walking Wet Dream was tall and slightly lanky, and had a denim-clad booty that deserved poems and accolades, maybe an anthem if Wade could get his act together. 

He was strutting over before he’d even decided to do so, his legs—maybe dick—a step ahead of his brain. 

The closer he got, the more he saw, and the more he wanted to fall to his knees and devote himself to a new life of worship. 

Pale skin, soulful eyes,  _ freckles! _ —and soft waves of brown hair that  _ begged _ for Wade’s fingers to card through them during post-sex cuddles because Wade was a fucking cuddler and unashamed to admit it. 

“Look, I’m really sorry, I didn’t realise it wasn’t allowed,” the young man was apologising to Weasel when Wade joined them. His voice was soft, his accent native Queens with a low timbre to it that sent a shiver from Wade’s toes to the crown of his head. 

“He didn’t realise it wasn’t allowed!” Weasel mocked, rolling his eyes towards Wade upon noticing his presence and throwing his hands into the air to over-emphasise his point. Turning back to the photographer, he reached out imperiously. “Give it to me.”

Brow furrowing, there was a flash of pink tongue as he licked those pouting lips, and Wade felt his dick twitch.  _ Settle down, boy. _

“W-what?”

Weasel huffed in annoyance. “Your camera,” he enunciated clearly. “Hand it over.”

A moment of silence, and then those honey-hazel eyes widened in dismay. “No, I can’t—It’s worth half my yearly salary…” His gaze drifted to Wade imploringly, a desperate light in his eyes that hooked Wade right in the stomach and reeled him in like a 210lbs catch. 

Well, he’d always thought he’d make a good hero. 

Slinging his arm over Weasel’s bony shoulders, Wade pointed out, “It’s not exactly written down, you know, the ‘no photo’ rule…”

Weasel choked unattractively—though everything Weasel did was kind of unattractive—his consternation at Wade’s betrayal obvious. 

Oh well, ass before...? There really should be a saying for that. What was a good rhyme? Class? Mass?

“Too Catholic Church,” Wade muttered, dismissing that train of thought quickly. 

Baby-browns was giving him a confused look, and Wade wanted to make a good impression. 

“No need to take the whole camera. How much for the film? $10?” He patted the pocket of his sweats and unearthed some cash, a condom packet, and a stick of loose gum which he promptly popped in his mouth. “That should cover it,” he waved the actual money towards Cutie-Patootie, though he snatched back the condom and tucked it away in his pocket again, cuz hey, protection was important.

“We keep the criminals happy and off Instagram, you don’t have to sell your soul—or ass—for a new gadget, and Weasel doesn’t get his way… sounds like a win all round to me.” Wade waggled the bill a bit more vigorously.

There was tremulous hope in Bambi’s face as he hesitantly reached out to accept the money, glancing at Weasel for approval. 

Weasel’s weaselly features were even more shrewd as he seemed to consider his options. His eyes gleamed with unholy light, Beelzebub himself come to earth. “I’ll accept—on one condition.”

Wade didn’t like the sound of that, but Camera Boy was speaking before he could caution him against accepting anything from Weasel. 

“What is it?”

“You take part in the next round—against Wade here,” Weasel announced. 

“ _ What? _ ” Wade squawked, at the same time the other man said “All right!”

Weasel smirked. “I’ll go announce it then,” he said before he wandered off, leaving Wade with Beauty-but-not-so-much-Brains.

Wade flapped his hands between them. “No, no, no—BAD IDEA. Why would you agree to something like this?!”

A one-shouldered shrug, and those pink lips twisted into a rueful smile. “If it’ll get me out of trouble….”

“Frying Pan! Fire!” Wade was quick to point out. “I would have talked Weasel around…”

No one should look that cute cocking their head to the side—wasn’t that just an anime thing? Did people really do that in real life? Cearly, yes, because Shounen-Ai(yai-yai!) was doing it right now, and wowzers, those eyes were even more beautiful when they gazed right at him. 

“I appreciate it, but I’m not used to relying on someone else to bail me out of my own mistakes.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Besides, I did some wrestling in high school.”

Wade swallowed. “Kid, this ain’t exactly high school with high school rules. The SM of Sister Margaret’s can have multiple meanings, if you get my drift?”

The cinnamon roll that Wade suddenly wanted to protect at all costs gave a snort of laughter—an actual nerdy snort!—and quirked a grin, his whiskey eyes glinting. “I know I look innocent, but I grew up in Queens—I promise I’ve got a little experience with the world. I’ll give it my all—so don’t go easy on me.”

Wade might just be half in love already. 

Cute  _ and  _ sassy  _ and  _ plucky—how the fuck was he supposed to resist this?

He cleared his throat and searched for something to say that wasn’t him spilling his undying love for this stranger. “You got a name?”

Twinkle-eyes grinned, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “I guess if we’re going to be getting up close and personal, it’s only fair I introduce myself. I’m Peter.” He held out his hand. 

Wade just about squeed, unsure where to look—the dimple, the smile, or the elegant fingers with the cute little knuckles and slender wrist reaching out towards him. He swallowed heavily, then realised he’d been staring long enough for it to be awkward, and hurriedly clasped that hand in his own scarred palm. 

Warm, firm, not at all limp and weedy as twinks and nerds were wont to be, and Wade didn’t want to let go—or well, maybe he did, but only so he could put that hand around his still very interested and over-eager dick. 

“Wade Winston Wilson, at your service,” he said instead, releasing Peter’s hand with only a smidge of lingering fingers. 

Sweet-Pea huffed another laugh, and god, it was like honey to Wade’s ears, sliding down his spine in one warm, gooey sludge. “I guess alliteration runs in your family, too?”

“I’d have a good website though, don’tcha think? WWW dot WWW dot…. What country has a W domain?” he mused aloud, not really expecting an answer. 

“Western Samoa,” Peter said with no hesitation. “Dot WS.” 

Wade gawked a bit, struck speechless. 

Maybe not brainless after all. 

“Not sure I want to know why you know that…” he teased. 

A red flush crept up Peter’s cheeks, and he lowered his lashes. “Um… hate to ruin my Too Cool for School Image, but, ah, I was a real dork as a teen. Still am, really.”

“You know what they say, ‘one man’s dork is another man’s—”

“Dick?” Peter piped up. 

Wade’s words strangled in his throat, and his voice was tight when he finally managed to choke out, “Let’s go with that one.”

Weasel’s sudden reappearance and interruption was most unwelcome. “Enough flirting, girls. You’re up.”

“You know, that could be construed as gender discrimination,” Wade turned on Weasel, folding his arms over his chest. 

Nonplussed, Weasel amended, “Enough flirting,  _ fucknuts _ . You’re up.”

Wade took it. “All right, all right, we’re coming.”

“One minute,” Weasel warned and hurried off again. 

Wade’s stomach clenched. “Last chance, Petey-Pie,” he said a bit helplessly. “Weasel’s expecting me to win.”

Something like mischief flashed through Peter’s eyes, and his lips curled into a smirk. “And I told you… don’t go easy for my sake. I might surprise you.”

Wade had lost count of how many surprises the kid had thrown at him in the last, what, fifteen minutes? It felt like half a lifetime. 

“I guess I’d better change… and find somewhere to put my stuff.” Peter glanced around, but this wasn’t exactly a school gym with designated lockers and changing rooms. 

“You just…”  _ Slip into something more comfortable _ , his inner porno voice suggested, which Wade promptly ignored, “... maybe lose the jacket, and I’ll find somewhere safe for your things.”

Peter nodded, shrugged a small backpack from his shoulder, and carefully packed away his camera before slipping off the thin cotton overshirt he wore, revealing a plain white tee. He dropped the shirt in after the camera, and lastly emptied his pockets, adding a phone and wallet to the backpack before zipping it shut. 

“Now what?” he prompted.

Wade sucked in a sharp breath, distracted by the lean yet wiry body that had been revealed to him under that tee, and arms that were rather defined for such a skinny guy. He shook himself out of his admiring haze. “Right. Yes.”

He glanced around for someone he trusted not to run off and sell the kid’s stuff the moment his back was turned, which unfortunately excluded pretty much 99.9% of the current audience. Wondering if he would really have to rely on Dopinder, who would probably give his last dollar away if someone came up with a decent story, he caught sight of the one person no one here would fuck with—him included. 

“Don’t move, BRB,” he ordered and grabbed the bag from his soon-to-be-opponent and proceeded to march over to the leggy, busty, woman sitting casually on the hood of an abandoned car. 

A raised eyebrow was all the greeting he got. 

“Domino, love what you’ve done with the hair, and are those new earrings? Looking cool and sexy—aaaaand, I’ll just get to the point,” he hurried on as her facial expression turned colder. He pushed the raggedy backpack into her hands. “Look after this for me, will you? I’ll owe you—alcohol, death of a boss, my sperm etc. Mwah, mwah, love you—”

He blew her a kiss and retreated before she could object, returning to where he’d left Peter. To his relief, he’d taken the “don’t move” instruction to heart, and Wade certainly wouldn’t mind finding out a little more how well he took to instruction…

“Nope, not the time…” he told himself. A boner just as he was about to get handsy with the object of his desires was a massive faux-pas. 

“Show time, Petey,” he told the smaller man. 

Peter had clearly watched some of the previous bouts, as he simply nodded and followed Wade into the vaguely circle-shaped space that had been left in the middle of the parking lot, ring-fenced on all sides by eager onlookers. Weasel awaited in the centre, trying to yell over the raucous group; for a bartender, he hadn’t really developed the carry-over voice most people in his line of work had. 

But, a metal bat on the side of a garbage can worked like a charm. 

“Right, shitheads,” Weasel yelled, “Last fight of the evening and then we can head back inside and carry on getting hammered. It’s our very own Mr. Wade “Deadpool” Wilson, and…” He paused, leaned over. “Kid, what’s your name?”

“Peter,” Teenage Dream informed him.

“Peter!” Weasel continued. “Winner takes the free tab prize!”

Drunk cheers erupted from the majority of onlookers, eager for the next fight, but there were a few “boo!”s too, some attendees clearly unimpressed by the very obvious inequality of their final round opponents. 

Wade couldn’t exactly blame them. Peter-Precious talked a big game, but this was clearly his first rodeo with the big boys and what big and mean boys they were. Well, Wade wasn’t going to drag it out, even for the sake of the kid’s pride, and certainly not for the sake of entertainment. 

Comfortable and clean that ground was not; he still had some tarmac bits embedded in his elbow to prove it. 

Across from him, Peter was doing some stretches, like the goody-two-shoes nerd he was, and Wade sighed. He needed tucking into bed with a hot cocoa and preferably Wade being the one to do it. 

_ Ma, can we keep him? Please? _

“Well, what are you waiting for? An invitation from the Queen of England?” Weasel snarked and gave his back a hard shove. 

Wade stumbled forward. “Yeah, yeah,” he groused. 

They met in the middle and took up a neutral starting position two feet apart. Peter’s eyes were slightly narrowed in concentration, and Wade was likewise eyeing up Little Mister Freckles for the best way to subdue him with a minimum amount of pain or injury. Except it was kind of like being a kid in a candy shop, so many enticing places to put his grubby little mitts on. It wouldn’t hurt to cop a feel or two while he was at it, right? 

“WADE!” Weasel hollered. 

Wade sighed and made his move—reaching out to fist his hands in Petey’s tee with the intention of lifting him off his feet and bringing him to the floor in a controlled way. 

…That was kind of where his plan immediately derailed. 

Peter’s hands grabbed hold of his wrists before he could even make contact and a rather nimble leg swept behind his knee and jerked him off-balance—so much so that he almost fell flat on his face, one arm thrown out to steady himself against the ground. 

“What the fuck?” he muttered but didn’t even have a moment to look for his opponent before a foot targeted the back of his knee once more and slim arms wrapped around his neck in a rather precise and point-worthy choke-hold. 

“I said I’d surprise you,” a voice teased in his ear, a little breathy and a  _ lot _ sexy, but this was  _ not _ the time for swooning. 

Although there’d be someone to catch him, he supposed. 

Wade tried not to view the next ten minutes as some of the most humiliating in his life. 

He had bulk and strength, and he knew how to use them to his advantage; even with deliberately trying to avoid injury, he should have been able to pin Peter to the ground. Except Peter was so much faster than he’d imagined, and spry, and lithe, and all those other fancy words used to describe a human being as agile and flexible as he was finding his opponent to be. It didn’t help he seemed to be  _ everywhere _ , his hands twisting Wade’s holds, his legs wrapped around his waist, his chest, his fucking head, and Wade wasn’t sure he hadn’t grown extra limbs like—

“A fucking spider in human form! The Human Spider!” he whined rather pitifully as yet another attempt to yank the smaller man off his back failed, and he rolled across the sharp ground. 

He’d thought this would be  _ EASY? _

Wade clenched, and Peter wriggled; Wade charged, and Peter danced away only to come back pouncing, and then Wade was on the ground with a leg over his throat and one arm twisted behind him and the other trapped under his body and Peter between his legs in  _ the worst _ re-enactment of a chiropractor's session he’d ever been involved in. 

“I win,” Peter claimed his victory.

“Erk,” Wade accepted his defeat. 

As Weasel announced the unexpected winner, Peter and Wade untangled. 

“Give it up for ‘Pin ‘Em Down’ Peter, everyone!” Weasel screeched, his clapping less than enthusiastic. Wade guessed he’d really been counting on Wade paying back that tab...

“Drinks are on me!” Peter cried out, much to everyone’s delight, and there was an immediate exodus of the parking lot in the direction of the back door into Marge’s. Weasel’s eyes bulged, and he made a mad dash to try and reach the bar ahead of the crowd, whacking people out of the way with his bat. 

In less than a minute, the parking lot was practically emptied. 

Thankfully untrampled, Wade remained sitting on the ground. He touched each of his limbs and reassured the world, “Still attached!” 

Domino sauntered over, the last to leave except for him and Peter. She dropped the well-guarded backpack into his lap, and Wade let out an, “Oof, mind Li’l Wade!”

“I like him,” she gave her verdict, added, “Don’t fuck it up,” and turned to follow the rest.

“Don’t wait up!” he called after her. 

She gave him the finger. 

And then it was just them, Wade on his ass as Peter walked over to stand beside him—eyes bright with exertion, a pink flush colouring his cheeks, ruffled hair and his shirt pulled to the side to expose one delicate-looking collar-bone. He looked imminently fuckable. He was also trying to look apologetic, though he was clearly feeling a little smug if the curl of his lips was anything to go by. “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. 

“I’m not,” Wade replied, and he meant it. Anger and hard feelings were for the Revenge Arc in life or the Arch Nemesis at the end of a quest. 

He stretched out a hand, and Peter helped him to his feet with ease. Wade eyed his arms both appreciatively and warily. “Man, how much does that camera weigh?”

Peter laughed. “Enough.”

Feeling tired, somewhat battered, and more than a bit smitten, Wade raised a hopeful eyebrow. “So, how’s about you buy a poor girl a drink?”

Peter’s smile started slow, then spread wide across his face. The dimple returned. 

“I’d like that.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Here is the aforementioned article on wrestling matches if anyone is interested, and the full extent of the research I did for this fic XD
> 
> https://www.yorkvillewrestlingclub.com/page/show/388068-how-a-wrestling-match-works


End file.
